


Pull Over

by Nakkodile_Lex



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dysphoria, Fluff, M/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakkodile_Lex/pseuds/Nakkodile_Lex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"transboyfriend<br/>wait<br/>transboyboyfriend<br/>boytransguytransfriendboy-"<br/>"Just call me Dave."<br/>Boyfriends trying and failing to make out in a car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull Over

**Author's Note:**

> This might be kind of ooc? it's based on an experience I had  
> Yes my other fic will be continued but my writing skills are crap rn (as demonstrated)

“Why do you have to live in such a well lit area?”

“I don’t fucking know, shitstain! This city is safe, good place to raise kids? Oh, of course! That’s why you turned out like you are, a punk, a heathen, a hooligan! Nerdbreath.”

“Yeah alright, you call yourself so pure, but have you heard your pottymouth lately, Vantas? You have no room to talk.”

“I swear to god, Dave-”

You lift a hand off the steering wheel and reach for his face. In the dark. Without taking your eyes off the road. You grope around, at first hitting only air, then patting his face- his nose, his cheek his chin. By the time you’ve found his mouth and slapped your hand against the proper place, he’s been shocked into silence by pure idiocy.

“I said no room to talk, bitchass.”

 

There’s silence in the car, and then you both start cracking up like the morons you are.

 

“Seriously though, why are these streets so well lit? I just want to park somewhere quiet and dark so I can defile you in the back of this crappy pick-up.”

 

The next time he speaks, it’s. very quiet.

You steal a glance. Aw, he’s blushy.

“Try this road.”

You come so close to losing your shit you nearly miss the turn-off.

But turning- _off_ isn’t exactly the mission here, anyway. When Bro gifted you his shitty old truck, your first thought was of the size of the back. You could move shit- but more importantly, you could fuck your boyfriend in that trunk. Easily. You informed him of this possibility, and you swear he blushed for three days.

 

$250 and a sketchy craigslist meet-up later, you had a bed cap, and with it a sheltered place to fool around. Step 1, check.

Step 2 was getting your darling boyfriend in your car, which was easy. You didn’t even need an excuse- all you had to do was brush his dark hair away from his ear and whisper into it until it was red to the tip.

Step 3, however, is proving difficult. You thought you would be like teenagers in a movie, but there’s no make-out point in this town- and while you feel like you drive in the dark constantly, every area you can think of to pull over on the side of the road has been too busy or too brightly lit. You’ve been wasting gas money for at least fifteen minutes now, and you really hope Karkat is leading you somewhere halfway decent.

 

Hell yeah your boyf pulled through, he sure did. You pull off to the side a fair distance from any houses, hit off the headlights. He berates you (of course), voice hoarse.

“Turn on the emergency lights, dunkass.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You flip the switch to turn on the hazards.

You stare at each other in the dark for a minute, before you heave out, “Trunk?”

“Yeah.” he breathes, fumbling with his seatbelt before leaping out of the door (slamming it shut, as always). You snort and proceed to shimmy your ass through the small window connecting the cab to the trunk.

His face as you open the door to the trunk from the inside is worth the bruises that will inevitably form on your hips by tomorrow.

“Heh, you took the cold way. Loser.”

“You’re just a twig! There’s no way I’d fit through that tiny door!”

“Just get in here, you weenie.” You gesture.

It’s cold in here too, of course. It’s not truly connected to the car proper, and so the heat doesn’t reach. But you thought ahead to grab a blanket, so at least you’re not lying on cold metal. You shut the trunk door(s) behind your ~~boyfriend~~ _idiot_ as he climbs in.

“Already shaking the car, baby? How long before we make the windows fog up?” you mockingly fan yourself.

He screws up his eyes and puts on his ‘I’m trying so hard not to kill you with the force of my ragegasm right now, Dave’ face. It’s adorable, and once you secure the trunk, you kiss him right on the tip of his nose. He squawks at the indignity.

You giggle and then start to say, “So, you wanna make some heat, or just freeze our asses off back here?” and he mashes his mouth against yours before you can even finish the sentence.

He’s got an exhibitionist streak a mile wide, but even he finds it weird when a car comes by and illuminates your outlines on the window. A perfect excuse to lay him down.

He immediately flips it to his advantage, laying on top and straddling your lap. He surges forward against you and you rock your hips against his when he pulls away.

You feel something unpleasant creep forward in your mind as makeouts continue- you ignore it in favor of kissing him with all your strength (and pushing the thoughts away).

But your brain adamantly reminds you of what’s getting in the way of your pressing bodies (and what’s not). Your lungs give up as your resolve to separate your mind as much as possible does the same.

He puts his arms over your shoulders as he kisses you possessively, and as much as you love his hand fisted in your hair, you know you can’t do it anymore.

“Fuuck.” you groan against his brusing kiss, eyes screwed shut and body language tightening.

He pulls away instantly.

“Dave?” Heh, his voice is so sex-cracked, and you haven’t even done anything. (This time.)

“Dave.”

“Uhhhhh…” you motion for him to get off your lap as you sit up.

“I’m sorry, just like, I’m, I, ugh. So much shitty dysphoria crap I can’t do this I’m so sorry you were so great, goddamn this was going places and then me and my shitty brain have to ruin it, I’m, ugh, I hate my life sometimes,” you go on, stammering apologies and profanities until he grabs your head in his hands and kisses your forehead.

“Dave. It’s alright.”

You can’t stop. You feel like shit.

You do the walk of shame back to the front seat, tears hiding, unshed, from embarrassment, from his overwhelming support, from frustration because god _damn_ this sucks.

 

You drive back to his house, mostly in silence (with the heat on, because you never did get the chance to warm up).

You end up snuggling on his couch for a while, and you still feel shitty, his reassurances have you feeling safe as ever as he holds you in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> im a trashcan  
> biologyisbullshit.tumblr.com


End file.
